Wednesday, January 31, 2007

My old army buddy* is a having a very big week. He is just returned from a year serving overseas. He just got engaged to wonderful girl. And on Saturday he will turn a whole 30-years-old.

In honor of his return and his birthday (there is no honor for getting engaged) I hoped to design a T-shirt that was amazingly patriotic and incredible and off-putting, all at the same time. But it also had to be classy enough that he could wear on post or at a Rolling Thunder motorcycle event or anywhere in Wyoming. And I needed it in a hurry.

Unfortunately, for the design’s sake, the bulk of my time went into researching if bald eagles are actually capable of crying since those were only patriotic eagle images I was able to find on the internets. I settled with a tough, non-weepy bird fearing that my friend might get hassled by his generals or whatever for having tears on his shirt. For everything else, I drew on my limited knowledge of military strategy, law, history and pride. I cobbled these jpegs together and produced an image of such patriotism that even the bravest and most stalwart eagle would get tremble-lipped at the merest glance with his tremendous eagle-vision.

It went off to the printers this morning, hopefully back in time for his birthday party. But as I was walking through the city today and noticed that my design was no worse than the kind of junk that the street vendors sell to the tourists and sap. Was I on to something? We’ll let the markets decide. I’ve since replaced/reconfigured** a few elements and now have a sure-fire DC collector’s item on my hands.

3 T-shirts for $10, hats for $8, plastic snow globes for $5.

*I say it like this so it sounds like I was once in the Army, though I certainly was not.**The differences? Replace Bush’s face with my friends, Cheney’s with Kim Jong-Il and add the words “Welcome home! Thank you for keeping America safe from Kim and his terrible Taepodong 2 missiles” at the bottom. I figure either one will sell like gangbusters.

TR: SO. I am glad I caught you. One of my brother's employees brought into work a container of poisonous oil and left it on her desk. Another employee took said oil, and put it in her coffee because she thought it would kill bacteria in her body. Bro subsequently had to call the RI Poison Control Center and they sent an ambulance to take the self-poisoned employee to the hospital.

The G: whhhaaaat

TR: I have no other details. I have no idea what this poisonous oil is, why it was at his work, or why a person would poison themselves with it.

The G: snake oil? kerosene? uhh. hemlock?

TR: He's not really sure. But he did say that it was in a small vile, labeled "Poison."

The G: i love a good hemlock.

TR: He always has these stories. Recently someone came into the branch and peed on a chair in their lobby. Also, a microwave was recently tossed out of a window. The microwave was flaming because it was sent on fire by a sponge.

The G: really, my favorite is "thought it would kill the bacteria in her body" you can't really beat that.

TR: Right. Like, we have enzymes for that. We don't need poisonous oil.

* * *

Justin: Hey! So I don't know if this is that good of a story, but pretty much my whole family (well, okay, only my mom, step-dad, wife and myself) are on this pretty intense Colonix treatment. So all of our conversations, of which there are many, consist mainly of discussing our stool. Respectively. This stuff is so powerful, it apparently gets rid of any parasites you might have as well. I say apparently because one of us, who I will not name just yet, found an 8-inch worm and freaked out. Freaked. The fuck. Out.

* * *

D: it was a very simple proposal. i gave her the diamond, asked her to marry me under the beautiful hawaiian stars. on the tropical hawaiian beach, with the waves crashing against the rocks all around us.

The G: wow. and then you frolicked in the surf? and a unicorn came by?

D: and then i told her "if you think you can do better, there's the door"

The G: so, you AREN'T getting married, then.

D: of course I am. who's better? i'm like that jojo song. know what i mean?

Say you have a peculiar interest in John Bolton because he looks like your dad and you like his mustache. And say you are also interested to hear that in an interview with Le Monde he says that the US has little strategic interest in a unified Iraq. But instead of that article, all you can find is a review of Benjy Ferree's new album in French. Well, that’s an interesting way to start off your morning. Not the most interesting, as I can attest to today, but pretty interesting.

I had never been to the zoo’s invertebrate room before. It is pretty magnificent, I highly recommend. You’ve got your standard Giant Octopus (not that giant), sure, and anemones and starfish and Golden Weaving Spiders or something, which- high comedy – the N thought was a glassed in exhibit. Freaked him out and how, even after some very friendly volunteer insisted the spiders have terrible eyesight, so they won’t, you know, jump on his face and web him up n devour him alive next week when they’re feeling peckish.

The nautilus was my favorite, they were very swimmy and busy eating shrimp kebab takeout.

If you have a few minutes to spare and it is a very terrible cold and rainy and snowy and 20-degrees-maybe-and-shit-is-that-hail? kind of day, the kind of day that no one in their right mind would say “HEY. Let’s go to the zoo!” then that is definitely when you should go to the zoo. You will have the entire Hissing Cockroach display unto yourselves. And at the Hissing Cockroach display (and the Spiny Lobster display, and the Vietnamese Killer Furry Orange Legged Nightmare Mutant Centipede display), the zoo requests your input! Please, write a poem about the Hissing Cockroach!

(Ed. Note: This may be the most satisfying picture ever appear on this website. A handwritten haiku by the G, ragging on K’s old roommate, in front of a giant fish tank filled with wriggling Hissing cockroaches. Especially since my poem turned out so bad - there are not a lot of colorful words that rhyme with "hissy" – The N)

Please draw a picture of the Maryland Blue Crab! Please stay here all day in the warm and fishy smelling room, so you don’t have to walk back to the car in Mt. Pleasant whose battery may or may not be dead!

Also, a giant ant farm! They’re in yr ceiling tubes. Converting yr fungus! Or so sez the zoo keeper who pretty much gave us a personal tour since we were the only suckers there.

AND THEN:

The National Geographic “Bizarre Beasts” exhibit was pleasant enough, but kind of a letdown, esp. after spending an hour or so hanging with real life Nightmare Centipedes. It’s basically two rooms. LJG: “I kind of let myself think that they’d all really be real and I’d get to cuddle with the saw mouthed shark. Awww. Man. Sad.”

Two satisfactory things about the NatGeo deal: one, the display entitled “TERROR BIRDS” which has become my new favorite phrase (“Hey, what’s wrong???” “TERROR BIRDS!”) and two: the interactive “build your own animal” touch screen thingy. It was terrible in only the best of terrible ways, and it is a proven scientific fact that hooves = funny. Sea animal? Give it hooves. Climbing monkey? Hooves, always hooves. Burrowing rat-mole thing? Definitely needs hooves.

The cloven hoofed rat-tailed sea leopard.

So, the exhibit didn’t take very long, and was kind of “meh,” but it leads into a beautiful nature photography exhibit that's pretty. It’s well worth a trip as long as you are okay with being a total loser since many of the photographs were taken by 10 year old Swedes who already have gallery representation and who’s parents take them on safaris to perfect their craft (not exaggerating.)

Sunday, January 28, 2007

After an 11 or 12 hour workday, weI was all glazedy eyed. We opted for a gallon of ice cream and "Idiocracy" Friday night. I laughed once or twice, which probably means I'm a bad person.

Last night K & S & I attempted to be involved in the DC Counter Culture Festival. In actuality, it meant missing everything that was going on as we sat at the front bar and downed some pitchers. Hey, question. Hasn't Dr. Dremo's been closed for the past five years? Or are they just always teetering on the edge? Or were we drankin at a ghost bar last night?

Oh, wait. We did see a few minutes of a screamo-bluegrass-punk (?) outfit. The lead singer had an accordian and the crowd ranged from 2 guys in matching blazer outfits (it was kind of rad, they looked like twins and were dressed alike????) and a dude in a three-sizes-too-small homemade Iggy Pop hoodie. And some capes and top hats.

Also, I tried to explain what "rockabilly" was, and I don't think I did a great job. So, here.

Off to go make lasagna more complicated than it actually is, and clean bathrooms. We're having people over for lunch. Who does that? We do, apparently.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Here's where I was going to write some d-baggy entry about how I am swamped at work and too busy to blog. But then I remembered I spent seven whole precious minutes searching for 3rd Bass' "Gas Face" video on YouTube, so. Anyhoo, happy weekend.

The G and I opted not to subject our cousin’s children to a popularity contest/BCS-like ranking system and consequently did not have a flower girl or ring bearer. But if I were to do it again I would look into having a ring bear.

I would train it to walk that goofy, upright bear walk down the aisle, carrying a little silk pillow with the rings on it. After it gave them to the minister, he (I assume it would be a he-bear) could back to four paws and sit their quietly during the ceremony. But if he caused trouble, I think one of the groomsmen could have a beehive on a long stick to distract him. Probably the G’s brother because he’s tall and has long arms.

At the end, immediately after the “…introducing for the first time Mr. and Mrs. Pygmalion…” he would stand up again and growl his bearish approval like the last scene of A New Hope.

---

Oh, by the way, I lost my wedding ring recently. It was an ill-advised course of action and, as you counsel, I strongly recommend against it.

Don't you love it when you write something and later on in the day, you read it and think: wow, this might be the most annoying thing I've ever written in my life? Thanks, blogging!

Okay, question. 25 new emails in my inbox, all from the Neighborhood Association message board. I am certain my new post entitled "YOU GUYS ARE ALL TODDLERS, OUI?" is going to take me far in my campaign to become next Neighborhood Association President, right? (I was going to add a joke here about how "I've started an exploratory committee" but then I'd have to kill myslf or move to Lincoln NE, in that order. What? Right.)

I can't even remember why I signed up for this website. I think the only time I ever posted something it smelled a little like: "oh my god why are there no straight lines in our house PS can someone please tell me who a girl has to blow around here to find someone to hang an outside door??????"

Usually the neighbors in our extremely tiny 'hood are courteous, and fun-insane (previously ref. 60-odd-year old lesbian who wears WWII goggles and drives her motorbike on the lawns moped and puts Doritos in her bird feeder; I LOVE her) and just one or two not-so-fun-insane (dillhole my age who allegedly takes photos of the neighbors outside her back window just in case she happens to see a solitary dog temporarily off it's leash, so she can call the cops. To her I say: eat me. We don't take our beast off-leash after that one incident you ratted us out. You win, we play be your rules and by the law now. Boring, but necessary. Point taken.)

25 messages on the tragic lack of parking which only exists in the hive mind of a few people? In truth, it is not really a problem. Our neighborhood is a few short streets. You can walk the entire development in five minutes, unless you see someone with a fun dog who you need to cuddle. (This happens a lot.) There is always parking available somewhere within the development. I cannot comprehend why it's necessary to throw a internet bitchfit because you "come home from work at 6:00 and there's no parking on my street OMG!!1" which, translated, means, "my neighbor has loud sex and it keeps me up at night and she bought ugly drapes which are bringing my propoerty value down and then she has the nerve to take the parking space directly in front of my front door and now I have to walk 20 feet." I do not know of anyone who is in a wheelchair (there are handicapped spots available) nor massively pregnant. Public streets, by the way.

My favorite proposed idea thus far: "Can we limit the numbers of cars owned by each house?" My imagination of the potential wacky hijinks that will come from enforcing something like that almost makes selling one of our cars worth it. I am all for public transportation and less cars on the road and environmental responsibility but. But. But. Besides, we're one of a select few assholes who own two cars.

Let's all please agree to get back to recommending handymen to install attic fans, sasquatch sightings, whether or not the colors of the pansy plantings are representative of a particular football fanbase we don't like and therefore can we get the colors changed, tree limb removal, banding together in a neighborly fashion to fight the onslaught of rabid mimes on unicorns, marmot infestations, whatever. I mean, that's all we talked about online all summer, and weren't those glorious times, neighborhood? I miss them.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The worst possible news coming out of the SOTU? The website www.whowantstosexmutombo.com no longer exists as your definitive source on the phrase "Who wants to sex Mutombo? It now houses porn. Intertubes, you should be ashamed of yourselves. The best I could muster was this…

Regarding popular culture, Mutombo is attributed with coining the phrase, "Who wants to sex Mutombo?" while seated at the bar near the entrance to The Tombs, Georgetown's famous student bar, which he allegedly developed as a pick-up line during his Georgetown days.

Terrible, just terrible. How could you see him up there in the balcony and not yell "Who wants to spoon Mutumbo?"

Fun with the thesaurus: why use the words “give kudos” when you can just use “kudize” since it’s the accepted verbiage according to my giant, 50-year-old dictionary.

Anyway, kudize the WPost on Sunday for bringing attention to a little known DC memorial in their Road Trip column in Section M. Duke Ellington’s birthplace is the fourth stop on their Swingin’ Through the Music Capital feature, located off New Hampshire between their Bayou and Crooked Beat Records stops. As the article mentions, there’s not much in the alley to connect the jazzman to the building outside of the sign reading “Duke Ellington Building” and a wee plaque. Especially since his grandparent’s house was razed decades ago and an office has been standing in it’s place for years.

It’s also tough to drive to – down several one-way streets – and most of the more recognizable landmarks nearby have recently been torn down. (It was behind Blackie’s House of Beef.) I only found it a couple years ago after I was looking for a short-cut to an ultimate frisbee pick-up game and noticed the plaque. Ward Place, the street it’s on, is really more of an alley than a road but it’s got its own street sign off 22nd if you’re looking to visit.

But you don’t really need to. Here’s the building…

and the plaque…

If you’re into stuff like this, a better use of your time would be to fill your belly with chili-cheese fries at Ben’s and then head on down 13th Street. As a kid, Ellington lived in the house at 1805 for four years and then across the street at 1816 for three more. There are no plaques or anything (and I think people still live there) but you get a better sense of Duke’s life there than you would just staring at an office building.

Or better yet, come April you can get a feel for the whole neighborhood by attaching yourself to these guys. It’s a pretty great tour.

If you were to ask 5-year old me what my favorite record album of all time was, the answer would have been Some Girls. I loved Some Girls, but only because of the album jacket, which was like playing with paper dolls. (The music itself was inconsequential, my heart belonged to Steve Miller and "Abracadabra.") If you were to ask my brother what his favorite album was at the time, he would have replied "anything teethable." Brother version "Toddler" was a biter, dude.

My baby brother just got his heart smashed into tiny little pieces, for the second time in his life. It's hard to comfort someone miles away while trying to watch Robot Chicken. Some girls need time, some girls come back, some girls don't. Some girls are crazy, and some are boring, and some, like that 18 year old dance major he kept longer than was funny, are just plain stupid. This one was a good girl, and man, I will miss her. But bros before nice-ex-girlfriends-you-wish-well.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Before I’d even read the packaging that celebrated the idea that it was a “dual action gift”, I’d exclaimed to the thousands who had gathered for my birthday celebration that this Best Buy gift card was shaped like an ice scrapper. Further examination reviled that not only was it shaped like an ice scrapper but those crazy snowed-in St. Paulians were angling for some harebrained marketing ploy by actually making it an ice scraper!

It’s like an lamer than usual Swiss Army Knife but instead of a white plastic toothpick you’ll lose in 20 minutes, you can save $25 on Yeti Fur-Covered Inflatable Chair or whatever nonsense gamers need to find Zelda.

I spent the card on a new and hopefully Brown Dog-proof iPod but the penguin murdering warm spell has meant I haven’t been able to use the scraper function. But this morning found our car covered in a delicious sugary frosting and I was able to dig the scraper out from under the front seat, next to the empty diet Dr. Pepper bottles and calcified French fries.

The verdict?

First off, you have to wear mittens unless you want that cheese grater effect on your knuckles. The initial pass did not penetrate any ice, requiring me dig around the trunk for that single unmatched glove in order to get more torque. That served well enough for some windows but I quickly reached the limits of what a credit card sized scraper and fitful/enthusiastic thrusts could achieve. If I only had another larger, flat piece of plastic…

Success! Huge swaths of ice and snow crumbled under the assault of the jewel case. We were city-bound in minutes.

Conclusion: If Best Buy wants us to associate standing angrily in an ankle deep slush/salt/sand mix with our ruined slacks with their store, then they should just give out free jewel cases and forget about the dual action gift certificate/ice scrappers.

One, I like live shows. Benjy Ferree was good! Merideth was good! I should get out, make an effort, give up on the spider-plant-cultivatin' -sweatpant-donnin'- tv-guide-memorizin' lifestyle choices I have been making lately. All I kind of do is sit around, watch edited-for-time cable features (see "Bone Collector", below) and snack out of whatever crazy invention the N has made in the Crockpot.

But then, Saturday, S. started talking about going into hermitude, and I briefly reconsidered. Man, hermitude has treated me really well lately. And, hell? I have to buy the proper clothes if I want to hang correctly, no? (see sweatpants, above). I don't own tapered jeans? What if I want to be featured on some sort of photo gallery website of cool vaguely-French looking hipsters drinking Spark @ RnR with OH JUST KIDDING!

Three and V.V.V. Imp., if the smoking ban has brought anything to light beyond the careful considertaion of Chantrix packaging design while drinking bottled Bud, it is farts. Farts are relishing in some golden times right now, my friends. People, pleasing stop farting at shows. There is nothing left to cover the stench, and so now it's just the smell of sweat and wool and bleach and old fart. Doormen should be handing out Ass-Don't-Smell in pill form along with your double handstamps.

Four, be careful in Charlottesville, you can get convicted in traffic court if you ride your bicycle in a suspicious manner.

I can't even tell if this is going to work: the internet is broken and I am all alone in my icy office. Luckily i have nothing to tell you (other than I watched "The Bone Collecter" yesterday on USA, and it was hilarious, thanks Angelina Jolie!) but I CANNOT PLAY ONLINE WORD GAMES EITHER. Poor me.

Friday, January 19, 2007

In a somewhat recent conversation, a Tom Lee-like minded friend disclosed that he got his job when a stranger/danger man walked into the old Rosslyn Egghead Software where he was stocking shelves and offered him new IT employment on the spot. His company was just realizing they needed their own dedicated server-nerd and figured what better place to headhunt than at a place that specialized in King's Quest IV: The Perils of Rosella. He didn’t bother talking to the manager or help department, he just hired the first person he saw. My friend still has the job and makes lots of money and is also my resident expert of GenOne GI Joe and Transformer toys.

This incredible revelation got me to thinking about whatever happened to zany old Egghead Software. But this only led to a second revelation that what happened was pretty boring – Egghead recently went bankrupt after it was announced that their customers’ credit card information got hacked. However, I like this description on Wikipedia:

The stock plummeted and the company, led by the unknowing, drifted off to bankruptcy court, sinking lower until it became a mere banner ad on Amazon. The glory days of personalized service, knowing your customers’ names, try-before-you-buy sales, and old fashioned values were gone. Business 2.0 won.

And what is also not boring is what I found out about the history of the word "egghead". Did you know that we can thank Richard Nixon for its current definition? Before Tricky Dick came along egghead was only applied to people who were either bald or stupid or both. It was only after he referred to Adlai Stevenson and his Democratic supports as "eggheads" did its modern characterization as an anti-intellectual slight seep into modern society. (Reaching its pinnacle with Vincent Price’s performance as Egghead in the Batman TV series.)

Of course Nixon did not invent the term, he merely honed it into my favorite taunt of the IT department (after the Poindexters, the Bilboes, the Wicket W Warwicks and the Shazbots.) In fact, the original version of Elmer Fudd in the late 30’s was called Egghead. But it didn’t take hold until Nixon took the ol’ slaphead Adlai to task for looking so nerdly. This subsequent anti-smartypants attitude is also the reason the Reds almost beat us to the moon.

Added bonus! Teddy Roosevelt used the term pussyfoot so often he is also mistakenly given credit for its invention.

I had a long and depressing post all about the circle of life and aging and some such shit ready to post, but then I decided I needed a snack first before getting all internet overwrought, so I went to lunch. That was a mistake, my friends.

I caught a glimpse of myself in several plate glass windows. Dammit. Perhaps you saw me too, on K St just a sec ago?

You want to know what happens the first time I epxeriment with the whole tucking-slender-pants-into-boots thing? I pick black pants, and black heeled boots, and a longish black coat. TADA. Instant SS trooper.

I am totally and completely dressed like a Nazi today. Congratulations, me. You are the biggest fucking loser known to mankind. Well played.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Hey Wide Wide World of Web: can anyone tell me the last time the Constantines toured the US? Curious. They are in Canadia right now, not that that means anything at all re: my question.

* * *

Conversations at BCat bar

Dude: "OMG!!!!! Is this Love and Rockets?"Me: blank Stare, as I contemplate why someone has just asked me about a "Puffy Pocket"Bartender: "It's Echo and the Bunnymen"Dude: (under breath) "They always play Echo & the Bunnymen. ALWAYS."

It has recently come to my attention (by "come to my attention" I mean: I was looking for myself to see what I had been up to) that someone with my name has written a few books here and there.

I just wanted to clear something up, before I get innundated with email from high school boyfriends and girl scout troop leaders and my brother's friend who thought I was hot for like 2 weeks my junior year in high school when I was rail thin due to a nice bout of mono:

I do not now, nor have I ever, known anything about New Zealand film production. Sorry.

Say you have a store credit for $20. You go up to the cashier to buy $45 worth of crap. You hand over your store credit, a $20, and a $10. Now, I haven't worked in retail* since Clinton was in office and I was you were, hypothetically of course, contemplating suicide under the most facist toy store regime** ever known to sweet, sweet Earth.

Is this standard? Instead of giving me change back, giving me store credit again? The N. says I should have first handed over the store credit and told the cashier to use it up, and then handed over cash to cover the rest of the bill. I am dumb because I assumed this would happen anyways. Long story short, I've got like $7 in store credit to H&M now, so if any of you are jonesing for a poorly made, vaguely-European looking & complicated tank top in sizes meant for hipless munchkins, I'm yr gal.

* I was unaware that something called "Noodle Kidoodle" was responsible for the elimination of my (granted, terrible) college-Christmas break employment!!!! Damn you Noodle Kidoodle!

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

We decided to give the Hollywood Foreign Press Association Party a try Monday night but clicked on at the start of Warren Beatty’s lifetime something award and the result was like putting plastic dry-cleaning bags over our heads and taking a deep breath. How did this guy talk his way into the pants of Joan Collins, Leslie Caron, Brigitte Bardot, Carly Simon, Candice Bergen, Cher, and Britt Ekland? He was up there for 15 minutes, stuttering along and doing Borat impersonations, for Clyde Barrow’s sake. Terrible.

On the upside, though, I no longer have a nagging feeling that I let Warren Beatty down.

You see, Warren is a proud son of my hometown. After the prom at the end my junior year, and being the crunchy granolas we were, a bunch of us on the crew team camped out in the backyard of the house where he grew up. Our location in the lover-boy’s lawn, along with the spirited mood due to the school year’s finality, naturally lent itself toward love.

But I couldn’t pull the trigger. It was my first date with this girl and she had two terrible cold sores that night. I wasn’t going to risk getting any sort of mouth grossness going into the last year of what I correctly predicted was the pinnacle of my social life. She was as senior going off to some Ivy League; I was a junior going off to be the greatest lover our town had seen since Beatty himself. There was no kissy-face to be had that night.

Yet, I still felt like I hadn’t done right by Warren. He would have closed the deal, no matter what he’d learned from Coach Bruce in health class, and his has shadow has haunted me to my grave. But not no more, as Coach would have said. Not after that wretched excuse of an acceptance speech.

- MEDIA ORGY. Time to freak out. I’m looking especially at you; Panty-Meltees, Girl From My High School Years Who May Have Some Sort of Postal Service Tattoo; Indie Internet.

- I have voted in the Plug Awards, for whatever good it does. Full disclosure: I did not vote for “Boys and Girls in America.” I also did not vote for Joanna Newsom. I have downloaded all of “Subliminal Genocide” but I voted for The Melvins.

The experiences I have with animals invading my homestead mostly do not include squirrels. Besides my pops accidentally smoke-curing baby squirrels who had made a comfy nest in our woodstove fireplace when I was in 4th grade. I do not want to talk about it, I don’t think. It appeared to be an accident.

Other creatures/incidents of note:

- There was a disastrous rescue effort of a woodpecker living in my fireplace in a rental (a house that would make the Flophouse look like one of Saddam’s palaces in it’s most glorious years.) This involved a bedsheet, an escape attempt, and a cornering in the kitchen with a soup pot.

- At the same house, there was the flea infestation by the pet of an alcoholic former tenant who skipped town in the middle of the night, stole our neighbors TV, and left a stolen car in the driveway. She also once was so drunk she stopped her car in the middle of the street rather than parking it, came inside, and passed out. The cops came to ask about the truck in the middle of the goddamn street. She was great. ...I know I’ve written about LaVerne (Lavelle? LaTrelle? LaTrina?) before, but she was really beyond awesome and her legacy will probably never die. Her Take-No-shit Bangs from Aqua Net Hell and the deathly smell from her storage unit...those two sensory experiences alone will never be far from my mind.

- I lived w/ a pleasant, albeit squeaky, group of mice in a studio apartment I shared. I slept about an hour per night, because I couldn’t stop thinking about those dirty little mice feet running across my face as I slept. Luckily, my roommate was out of town more often than not, and she had the top bunk. When she was gone, I took over her perch, and slept rather nicely as opposed to the usual laying awake and pissed, listening to the crackling sounds of mice eating through the bottom of her out-in-the-open bag of Tostitos. Maybe I was wrong, can mice climb???? Probably. Gross.

- There was the large albino possum (Cujo) that lived outside one college residence. It was a good 65 pounds from years of splendid feasting on grain dropped by the cars of a slowly-moving train, who’s tracks were only a few hundred feet from the warm back stoop of said dorm. He hissed at people and was terrifying. I once made friendly ol' Matt run in for eyedrops in my apartment just because I did not want to get out of the car. He took a large stick with him, just in case.

- There are the mockingbirds. We have discussed the mockingbirds.

- The dorm composed of sophomore male athletes and KA brothers not living in their own damn house. Dudes liked to make sheep noises out the open windows all night. Specifically yelling toward other dorm windows, specifically 3 AM or so, the victims of noise pollution would call and complain and because I was the RA for those fucktards, I then had to go sit ON THE HILL BEHIND THE DORM AND LISTEN TO SEE WHO WAS MAKING THOSE NOISES SO I COULD BUST THEM. My busting methods were pretty solid though. I never wrote anyone up, I took their beer for my personal consumption as a punishment. I did not share.

- Finally, there is my dog, who is grounded for recent events and is lucky he is not being turned into a warm brown coat. Wreck and he may need to attend group counseling together for their anger management issues. BD has a new leash with a head harness that he hates, but amuses me. It is like walking a miniature pony around the neighborhood. We are additionally looking into boarding school, but I am afraid the rich bored lapdogs will simply get him into cocaine. He’s pretty dumb, and definitely a follower. BD has reached his terrible teens, and I don’t think I can deal with his inevitable substance abuse problems on top of all the other shit he’s pulled recently. Including a minor stint on the “good” couch this morning, which is punishable by death round these here parts.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I once said that nothing was funnier than sending evites to people inviting them to go fuck themselves, but I take that back: the funniest thing is running into your father-in-law at Urban Outfitters*, because it's mind-bombingly inexplicable on at least 14 different levels.**

* TR: "Whoa, I was unaware Gideon Yago was old enough to have kids?"** This is a situation I found myself in yesterday. Not kidding.

So in 2007, 365 days the N and I have recently dubbed "The Year of Fiscal Responsibility", I think I'm going to be super-honest when people ask how I've been or what I've been up to, and just list the Discovery Channel show schedule.

"Hey, long time no see! How've ya been? What you been up to?"

"Oh, you know. Same old shit. Mystery Diagnoses: The Man with Rocks in his Chest, etc. What about you?"

(Also secretly kind of amped for: Joined For Life: Abby and Brittany Turn 16, Very Best of the World's Worst Drivers, Manar's Story: Born With Two Heads, and Animal Cops Detroit: Mysterious Injuries.

Did you not see his Comedy Central special? Is it because you had the day off on Monday too, but were cooler than us and actually left your house on Sunday night? You lose, barflies. It was total greatness.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

When I was about 12 years old, my grandfather’s new wife’s son came to stay with us during our vacation. He and his friend took the D and I to the Go-Kart park and predictably became our new favorite step uncle. Later that night, as I laid in bed with those blissful Bumper Boat visions replaying in my head, I overheard some adult conversation through the paper thin beach house walls.

It was the first time I understood that when grownups used the word “gay”, it meant something different from the way my friends and I used it.(re: not followed by the word wad.)

The second time I understood something was gay was when Captain Harris and Proctor went to the Blue Oyster Bar. Or a place “featuring patrons dressed up as bikers in leather clothing, sailors, and other gay fashion archetypes made famous by the members of the Village People” as Wikipedia so matter-of-factly phrases it.

The third time was tonight as I drove through Thomas Circle on what seems to be National Rob Halford Day. I don’t really know how I missed that this weekend is Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend 2007. I have totally not been reading the right blogs.

PS - This is the site’s first entry ever completely hand-written on a Motion tabulate with a stylus. It took 13 hours and the first draft ws completely incomprehensible.

Friday, January 12, 2007

yesterday blew. I missed PM dawn and my life just kind of sucked a lot. It was totally awesome.

The only thing that has come even remotely close to cheering me up lately: 1) after 12 minutes of watching before i threw my remote at the TV and stormed out of the house, i confirmed my television feelings re: every character on grey's anatomy and how they all should have been blown up by that bomb last season, except Izzy, and that was only because I was fascinated by how she got her headband to look so damn foxy and 2) reading this morning the first paragraph in wikipedia re: Supertramp.

Backed by a Dutch millionaire named Stanley August Miesegaes, vocalist and pianist Rick Davies (born July 22, 1944 in Swindon, Wiltshire, England) used newspaper advertising in Melody Maker to recruit an early version of the band in 1969, an effort which brought aboard vocalist/guitarist and keyboardist Roger Hodgson (born March 21, 1950 in Portsmouth, Hampshire, England). Other members of this embryonic Supertramp group included Richard Palmer (guitar, balalaika, vocals) and Robert Millar (percussion, harmonica). Initially, Roger Hodgson sang and played bass guitar (and on the side, guitar, keyboards, cello and flageolet).

See? FUNNY.

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Ugh. Goodbye for Friday, blog. Back when life stops threatening to eat my face off. you know what Grams always said: "bad things happen in fifteens." I think that's how it went.

Internet kids have already declared teh BSWW a smashing success, and if by "smashing success" you mean "me, drinking lots of Jack Daniels in a corner and trying to persuade all the cute dogs in the room to get in my bag so I could take them home" than yes, success. Correct.

In a nutshell: I made a few nonsensical comments, other people had actual helpful criticisms and input, and I was gently derided for bringing my work neat-n-clean and 1.2 spaced AND IN A MANILA FOLDER, which, face it: was adorable and you all were just jealous you aren't so organized.

So, great fun, etc. And we didn't have to watch Bush, which is a bonus. Who knew the internet harbored some serious writing talent?

Unrelated # 1. Lots of artists use photos/memorabilia of their parents/grandparents/other ancestors in their pieces? Bah. I am terribly vexed by the prospect of having my future offspring use the contents of my Flickr account as part of their four-dimensional-hologram-future-sculpture-whatever-art portoflio pieces. So, thanks a lot for this info, Sommer and Kriston. The moment I get accidentally knocked up, I'm going to have to eradicate all internet traces of myself just to protect future art critics from seeing my drunken dorm years played out via multi-media collage. Cripes.

Additionally, K. Capps and I are in agreement: 2007 marks the glorious phoenix-like return of the PIFFB. Prepare yourself.

Sometimes there are days when you find a scratchy AM station playing 5 hours of Limbaugh and Hannity and thank the Maker because at least they aren’t only talking about things that happened 2007 year ago. And it’s not the John Tesh syndicated show playing covers of Hall n Oates.

Also, sometimes you go 5 years without hearing Canned Heat on the radio but then you have to listen to it 3 times in one day. So you sing it out loud at Walmart because it’s not like you can alienate yourself anymore.

And sometimes you’re driving and you pass a sign that says “now entering the Central Time Zone” and you realize you haven’t any idea of where you are but it’s certainly the wrong state.

Finally,(?) sometimes you think you see an RV with a big ad on the side that says “Catsnip” and you think to yourself Cat Snip would be a funny name for a feline spay/neutering service. And then you look closer and realize someone has already beaten you to the punch because you aren’t willing to make house calls or provide affordable discount pricing or set up a table in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Thanks for opening my eyes to your complex and non-traditional understanding of art in general, my mind is being comprehensively blown by each consecutive text.

So, I have been able to internetsnoop exactly minus-0 information on Orchard Vale*, the Tim Kinsella flick. The only thing the Joan of Arc message boards produced is a kind of hilarious wordfight re: Cremaster Cycle.

Anyways, the trailer is about all I can find. Anyone else got teh goods?

1. After reading random Amazon reviews for a few minutes this morning, I have come to sev. conclusions: One, that The Time Traveler's Wife is terribly miscategorized and two, that K. and I are the only women in the world who hated that book.

2. New tool to assist in the years-long TR vs. The G "Battle of the Canadians," (an idea I'm pretty sure Fametracker stole from us): The Huff Post News Ranker.

In my world, Anne Murray always wins.

3. The N. is out of town. This is terrible news for more than just me (must do own dishes) and the dog (must cry himself to sleep at night). It's terrible news for you, internet, as the N. is quite mad recently and has a backlog of 4 or 5 CHERRY blogfodderish-type stories to share.

4. You want to know what are amazing? Ankles. Ankles are amazing. How I manage to not break an ankle once a week, I do not understand.

5. When Zombie books become integrated into yr entire life:The G: God, that bar sucks. I can't believe people are waiting in line to go suck.The N: Look, at least they are going into that bar and not a bar you like, leaving the bars you like less crowded.The G: Oh God, it's like the Rede...The N: (simultaneously) ...ker Plan for Bars!!!The G: ...The N: We have stumbled onto something magnificent here.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

By last Wednesday, it was clear by the wheezing predictions from the Eastern seaboard’s weathermen that the temperature on Saturday was going to be close to 9000° and our skin would blister and erupt if we dared considered venturing outdoors. But if we stayed inside then the penguins win, so screw that. We cast around for hiking ideas from our friends that were manageable for fatties and dogs and Big Schloss near Columbia Furnace, VA was the victor.

What our advisor failed to mention (and may or may not have known) was that Saturday was the last day of black bear hunting in Virginia or West Virginia. (This may not be true as all my research indicated that bear hunting season ended in November or December.) This meant that the only souls we saw for the first 3 hours had guns and/or beards and/or had Dale Earnhardt style sunglasses specially designed for eyeballin’ city folk.

Not that any of that was a problem for me. You see, I’m down with it, the rifles and the camo and the sling-blading. The issue was our wussy, yellowbelly hound who was spazzing out in the backseat because he couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. You see, BD, was bred to hunt and kill bears. Actually, outside the odd wild boar who wanders across their path, that’s all Plott Hounds are supposed to do. But our dog is teh suckiest and was given up by his hunter because he is afraid of lambs. He was born in WV but now lives in Alexandria with his best friend the poodle and his most difficult decision each day is what sofa to sleep on. So it was a bit of an embarrassment when I unloaded our pathetic animal on his 16 foot retractable leash and special water bowl from my car.

Especially since this is how all the other dogs that were onsite were rolling.

You can’t really tell but there were 6 dogs in there. And there was another truck that was packed with about 20 dogs in three levels and it looked like the Beverley Hilldoggies were coming into town. Our dog couldn’t seem to get comfortable in the backseat on the way down and whined the whole way and made want to drive off a cliff like my old English teacher.*

We booked it to the trail and within five minutes met our first group of hunters. And since they had guns and we are babies, we looked at out navels and brushed by. But the next group had 7 hunters and a big dog and guns and radios and telemetry equipment and were scarier, so we basically ran past them. Even our dog sensed that he was pretty much outclassed because that other dog sleeps in a metal box. Also, it still had its balls. Something that our pooch forfeited years ago, and brother, those balls were big.

But since this group was very good at what they do, one their best was sent to track and maybe kill us. There was a lot of “Ohmygodhesfollowingusweshouldrun!” And when he was almost upon us we figured that our best chance at surviving was to freeze and hope that his vision as based on movement. Turns out, though, that he was just a regular nice guy and was just heading to lower ground to get a better read on his hunting dog pack. It was the last day of bear hunting season and muzzle-loading deer. They were using the ridge we were hiking on as high ground so they could get a better read from their tracking transmitters they have in their dogs. One guy in their group had an antenna receiver and he was relaying info along the mountain with walkie-talkies. When the dogs cornered the beast, our hunters would descend with their thundersticks and dine like blood kings on the corpse or do whatever you do with a dead bear.

Our particular hunter scratched our dog’s ears and commented that he was a good looking Plott and too bad he was so worthless. He also wanted to know if there was a third hiker in our group as we had all seen another woman power walking around. This was either because he was:

a. making sure that there were no witnesses when he purposely shot us deadb. making sure that we were the only witnesses when he purposely shot her deadc. keeping track of who was on the mountain so no one got shot dead.

Of course, it was the latter, and we are paranoid jerks for thinking otherwise. We wished each other well and got to our peak a few minutes later.

If you’re looking for good views of both VA and WVA, may we recommend Big Schloss. And between now and September it will be muzzleloader free.

Our trek back was kinda boring. We heard some dogs barking and a few rifle shots. There was only one hunter (the guy with the dog) but several other hikers who didn’t realize how lucky they were to have the woods bear-free.** There was another non-hunter guy who wanted us to keep our dog away because his was in heat. We could have warned him that there was a forest full of dogs, horny with bloodlust and their giant balls but he was kind of a dick so we let him pass without a word.

We got to the parking lot about the same time as other hunters got back. Upon first arrival there was this sense that our groups were not allowed to talk to each other but with our useless dog as a catalyst we all got along famously. There was as an awkward moment when one of the caged dogs was barking at ours and his owner yelled “QUIET! HE AIN’T WANT YER BOX!” a little too aggressively. But if it hadn’t happened, then our trip wouldn’t have had a catch phrase!

We waved goodbye to our new friends and drove off down the mountain, saddened that we would never see them again. But fortunately for us, Columbia Furnace’s strangely over-priced gas station also serves as the areas big game weigh station and everyone gets their picture on the wall! Even some of the ten-year-old girls who were running around showing their friends their kills! Now this enchanted Saturday will live in our hearts forever.

*The first day of class senior year, our flaky teacher told us she went hiking in Europe over the summer and had been tempted to throw herself off a cliff. If you wish to remain control over your class for the year, I would advise against sharing this.**Revenge!

Ganked from the secret blog of KS. Inform forthwith, Mme, should you be mad I am copying and reprinting yr very special list w/o permission:

So I have this old epidemiology textbook, right, from 1970...and on page 23 of this book is an excerpt from "Naturale and Political Observations Mentioned in a Following Index, and Made Upon the Billes of Mortality" by John Graunt in 1662. It is a list of "Diseases, and Causalities This Year Being 1632".

* afrighted* aged* apoplex and meagrom* bit with a mad dog* bloody flux, scowring, and flux* brused; issues* burst, and rupture* cancer and wolf* childbed* chrisomes* stone and strangury* cut of the stone* dead in the street, and starved* dropsie and swelling* prest to death (not to be confused with "cut of the stone")* falling sickness* flox and small pox* french pox* gowt* grief* jaundies* jawfaln* impostume* (MY FAVORITE BY FAR) Kil'd by Several Accident* King's Evil* Lethargie* Livergrown* Lunatique (which is probably like a lunatic, only fancier)* Made away themselves (suicide?)* Murthered (which is being killed by someone with a speech impediment)* Over-laid, and starved at nurse (your guess is as good as mine)* palsie* planet* pleurisie and spleen* purples (sounds like a fun way to go, whatever it is)* Quinsie* Rising of the Lights (a pretty way to go)* Suddenley* Surfet* (SECOND FAVORITE, ALMOST TIED FOR FIRST:) Teeth* Tympany* Tissick

Friday: pizza and wine; post pizza-n-wine, bellying up to a bar w/ yr spouse to quiz each other on sports teams (I know nothing about hockey, and yet have managed to somehow imbed most cities hockey team names in my pea brain. Edmonton Oilers? How did I know that? Remain amazed.) Saturday: waking up early to put on shorts (!!!) and head to the S Valley to hike the last day of hunting season, which may have been a slight miscalculation on our parts, but which led to lots of friendly conversation and hound dog ogling and a side trip to a big game weight station (kind of awesome.) Also we got to see J&T's new house in the 'burg, which is freaking adorable as all hell. The dogs got to run around in the back yard, we got to drop off a long overdue wedding gift and talk about wainscoting. Then we drove home and saw "Children of Men," which was okay, but after finishing World War Z* in the car and then seeing that film OKAY, I am done with the whole apocolyptic-self-desruction genre for a while. Then on Sunday we went to see if God could save our souls at the Church of St. Slut (more later on if this worked), came home and did laundry, and K. dragged my ass out to see the Societe Anonyme show at Phillips before it closed. And then we had people over to eat meatloaf and drink more wine. Meatloaf, people. Paradise by the Crockpot light.

Mondays can go die.

* More on the N and I's fabulous discussions re: this book later. It deserves it's own entryblog convention.

Friday, January 05, 2007

All yr recent talk made me remember a lawsuit my high school librarian was involved in, back 7 or 8 years ago, about Internet software blocking in public libraries/schools. I wasn't living in Loudoun in those days, but I remember it being a big deal. A county resident and breast cancer survivor had almost all of her online research at the county library blocked by "porn filters." I believe the HS librarian became a plaintiff in the case because students were finding the same problems at school; unable to do any online research for health classes.

None of this is all that interesting or groundbreaking. I assume there were cases like this all over the country, although if this occurred in the late '90s, LC may have been one of the first. Also nothing to do with the cease-shelfing of The Sound and the Fury (QUELLE HORREUR), but anyhoos. Ah, memories. Five dollars says the same librarian still works at that school. She was a hoot and a half, and fairly frightening if memory serves. I didn't spend much time in there though. As a jock, it is my duty to give nerds a hard time.

M to the J has alerted me to the existence of The Warriors. I'm more than a touch upset, because I'll be damned if this wasn't the way my delicious character dev/plot was leaning w/r/t my first assignment for Boundary St. Dammit!

From MJ:

In my weekly coupon email from Borders, they spotlight a few books or CDs that, in theory, are supposed to be very popular.

And this is the SIXTH book in the series! There were five previous! About cats! This blows a small part of my mind.

The best thing is that the name of the section this book is under is titled "Cat Power." I'm fairly sure that the kind of people who get that reference are not the kind of people who read the book. Just a hunch though.

As an added bit of fun, there was a link to an excerpt from the book. I've included it below. Remember: these are ALL cats.

Brambleclaw sent a silent prayer of thanks to StarClan that they had chosen this moment to send his old friend back to the Clans. He and Stormfur had been through a lot together on the first journey to the sun-drown-place, and he could think of few cats he'd rather have beside him now.

He turned his head as a thin wail came from a trampled clump of ferns at the edge of the hollow. "We need to find all the cats that have been badly wounded. Some will be on their way to join StarClan," he warned, glancing at Brook. "The badgers came to kill, not drive us out."

Brook met his gaze steadily. "Whatever they have done, I want to help. I have seen this kind of savagery before from Sharptooth, remember?" Sharptooth was a giant mountain cat that had terrorized the Tribe of Rushing Water for many moons, until the cats from the forest arrived. Stormfur's sister, Feathertail, had died in the fall that killed the savage animal.

"We'll do whatever we have to," Stormfur promised. "Just tell us what to do. Are you ThunderClan's deputy now?"

Brambleclaw studied a fragment of moss that was trapped under his front paw. "No," he admitted. "Firestar has decided not to appoint another deputy. He wants to give Graystripe more time to come back."

"That's tough." There was a note of sympathy in Stormfur's voice that made Brambleclaw wince. He didn't want any cat's pity.

MJ PROVIDES!!!!

Disappointment #1 is that these are childrens books, and now somehow less funny. 45 year olds reading cat fantasy? Kind of awesome. Kids reliving Ye Olde Thundercat experience? Eh.

I'll get over it. Actually, my favorite part of MJ's info is the text of Erin Hunter's author blurb. One: research (looking at the website for 4.2 seconds) has shown that "Erin Hunter" is actually a pseudonym for two women who work on this series. Two: Something is v. v. wrong here. The name "Erin" is perfectly nice. It is, actually, my given middle name. I like a lot of the Erins I have met in the world. That being said: If your name is CHERITH BALDRY, and you are a cat fantasy author, I am confused why you drop a name like that to go with "Erin Hunter."

Erin Hunter loves to read fantasy, enjoy nature, and take care of her cats. She combined these loves in her refreshingly original fantasy series, Warriors, which is about clans of feral felines scratching out a life for themselves in the wild. In Warriors, the New Prophecy: Sunset, the sixth book of the New Prophecy, the cats of ThunderClan are still cleaning their wounds from a vicious badger attack when a member of their clan named Leafpool receives a disturbing prophecy. Hunter offers another delightful, hair-raising adventure of cats in trouble trying to land on their feet.

Greatest author blurb of all time? You be the judge. Anyways, be sure to pick up books 1-6 at the Fairfax Cnty. Library. (oh, snaaaap.)

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In other news, my favorite websearch of the morning is "bears on leashes."

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Perhaps it’s our recent self-inflicted zombie terrors or it’s our snowy, Midwest Lutheran guilt. Or somehow, awesomely, both! Either way, we’re going to church on Sunday. It’ll be our first time at the local House of L so we don’t know the basics like start times, dress codes and whether I’m too old to go up front for the children’s service and then go make God’s Eyes with yarn and popsicle sticks.

And we never will, either.

Because Good Shepard Lutheran’s website is gslutheran.net. And in internet filter language that breaks down to g-SLUT-heran.net

"P.M. Dawn is an abbreviation of the idea that in the darkest hour comes the light," says Prince Be in explanation of their name. Children of the decade that made big shoulder pads and greed the latest accessories, they vibed off hip hop, R&B, pop music and rock while always finding solace and joy in music. Because they loved everything, they combined it all together in a big, "alternative" cocktail and laid their first demo to tape.

3. Galaxy Hut does not currently have Allagash White on tap, only bottle. They have replaced it with Allagash Grand Cru, I think. I took the last White bottle last night, probably for the entire week. I am allowed to do that, and am only sort of sorry. It was delicious.

4. Working out the amazing details re: The D's Valentines Day Sadie Hawkins Spring Fling Sock Hop Under the Sea Dance at the "Cardozo High Annex/Voc Tech Wing." Keep 2/10 open.

5. Agreed I am a goose, and hilarious that Mr. 'Ver was the only blahger to catch the best mistype EVER IN THE HISTORY OF YNG PIAB; and secondly: I will pay good US bank to see a TL vs. GD debate. Probs more than a $15 dollar PM Dawn ticket; I'd easily shell out 20 bucks. But: They both have to wear suits. Glenn has to wear a suit sans shirt, BUT still keep the tie. AND they have to speak at podiums. DCeiver can moderate.

My day off yesterday was grand, except for the whole losing-spare-keys / dog-in-trashcan / three-hours-to-drive-to-my-folks-house morning thing. But the afternoon was exponentially better, I got a winter coat so now I don't have to star in the role of Fey Teenager Freezing to Death at the bus stop every morning. If I rode the bus.

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My new years resolution is to fix my back and neck, which has been on a downhill trajectory the past few years. Treatments thus far have included muscle relaxants, painkillers, x-rays, puzzled and bewildered general practioners, new wave crap, a dietician, limited physical therapy, a quack or two, Ibuprofen ODing, general whining, tears, a completely frustrated husband who is tired of said whining and being the sole provider of contortionist backrubs, and a chiropractor that originally gave some relief (and also LOW WHISTLED when he saw my xrays, which, great? thanks for that professional evaluation, basically the whistle-equivalent of "whoa are you ever fucked?") but who I ultimately found annoying and didn't appreciate his "payment plan," so when his secretary called to make my next appointment I spun an elaborate tale about how I unexpectedly moved to St. Louis.

Part of the annoyance is that the Neck/Shoulder From Hades attacks in several sneaky ways: first, the ever-present knot under my shoulder blade and achey-stabby thing in the uppder-middle right of my neck, in btwn the protruding bone and top of the right shoulder blade. That has been with me on and off since high school, but has become a daily thing since 2002 or so. I don't even notice it anymore, except when I do.

Second, the "I Must Have Slept on It Wrong" stiffness and tenderness. This involves me walking like a robot and having to sleep flat on my back with tennis balls between my shoulder blades and under my neck. This lasts for days or weeks and is sooooo awesome.

Third, the nerve thing. This is the least frequent and yet most disconcerting. When I was 15, I worked at a framing supply store, and was shocked by an ungrounded shrink wrap machine. It knocked me to the floor, and I easily blame my sub-par PSAT scores on that incident. Even typing this makes me feel nauseous. My shoulder/neck/arm gets a similar electrical rush from time to time, usually when I've been sitting too long at my desk. Luckily, it comes without the full-body re-wiring like the events of 14/15 years ago.

Anyways, next stop: ART. My aunt has had pretty good luck with ART chiropractors/practioners, and there is a nearby Dr. who seems like he is a possibility. Also, he works on triathletes. Why this imnpresses me, I have no idea, but doooods, TRIATHLETES. I am going to a TRIATHLETE DOCTOR.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

IMDB sez Gerald Ford’s son played a “Lieutenant Willy” in Starship Troopers. If memory serves, I think he’s one of guys in the shower scene with Joey Tribbiani’s girlfriend and Gary Busey’s kid. Or he’s with Doogie/Barney Stinson’s*, right after they shove the probe up the Brainbug’s deal. By the way Mr. Verhoeven, even I, as a young and relatively sheltered Mennonite who snuck into the Valley Mall Tri-plex in Harrisonburg, VA against my father’s wishes to see your film, understood that this was supposed to represent a vagina.

*Did you know there are 2.5 versions of the George Harrison “Got My Mind Set on You” video? Not only is there the “stop-motion/sax playing squirrel/singing warthog” one that we all loved from when VH1 first cam about but there’s also there’s a considerably more awkward and somehow vaguely Canadian version! The miracle of HyperText Markup Language is how I found out…

Doogie Howser is in How I Met Your Mom-a-tron with the actress from Buffy who is married to some guy (who was also on both of those shows) whose first job was “acting” in the video for George Harrison. But wasn’t it just Harrison in that video, sitting in a chair? Not in the Rogue Ballerina version, which you were only lucky enough to see in Germany or some other barely democratic European pockmark.

There’s also a third video that I think is actually part of the second one. But you can clearly make out Jeff Lynne so therefore it sucks.

1. Watching both Sommer and Catherine take a punch @ a bullet-proof-flak-jacketed Spencer @ the Internet Gathering to End All Internet Gatherings? Pretty funny.

2. Tip: Do not start off yr NYE with a heavy yet delicious dinner, and then attempt to attend 3 or 4 parties afterwards. Its not worth it. Pick a party, and then just commit. Because otherwise, you will be wiped out by 12:45, and suddenly remember sleepily you left yr purse at party #3. And it's not even like we saw Moby or anything.*

3. In other news, I am calling in sick to work tomorrow to start "Freaks and Geeks", I have officially finished Season I of "VMars" now. Yes, I spent all weekend watching TV. Sometimes you just have to do that.